


Original Prankster

by RisingPhoenix761



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Archangel Gabriel (Supernatural), Breaking the Fourth Wall, Crack, Dean Winchester Has a Bad Day, F/M, Gen, Prankster Gabriel, SPN Fanfic Writers Pond Challenge, SPN Heaven and Hell Bingo, SPN Song Challenge Bingo, Trickster Gabriel (Supernatural)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-29
Updated: 2019-03-29
Packaged: 2019-12-26 12:06:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18282116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RisingPhoenix761/pseuds/RisingPhoenix761
Summary: Your favorite fictional hunter turns up in your kitchen, and your boyfriend knows more about it than he's letting on





	Original Prankster

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a total of five challenges. Yowza! Also unbetaed, also not to be taken seriously. Straight up crack, folks. Enjoy!

I've always had a soft spot for Sam Winchester. Such a serious, straitlaced stick-in-the-mud with a stick up his ass, and pushing his buttons never gets old. I've tried to get him to loosen up over the years and he never seemed to appreciate it, and I guess I can't blame him. Entirely, that is. The universe at large, and my relatives in particular, seem hard up to raise hell and somehow or other the Winchesters always get involved.

Martyr complexes, if you ask me.

It took long enough, believe me, but I finally got him to crack. Lighten up. Live a little. And who'd'a thunk it, but that stick in the mud actually has a sense of humor! I know, right? Not only that, but he apparently has a history of hijinks with his big bro.  _ My _ kind of hijinks. So not only did I discover Sammy Boy's humor, I also discovered a partner-in-crime. A trickster-in-training, if you will.

Because the only thing better than screwing with Sam? That, boys and girls, would be screwing with Dean.

***

_ Dean woke up on the bathroom floor, a little too close to the toilet for his liking. That he'd passed out wasn't a surprise, given how much he'd been drinking the night before, but how the hell he managed to squeeze himself between the commode and the bathtub to sleep was beyond him. His head pounded, and there was a sour taste in his mouth that told him he probably puked recently. _

_ Slowly getting to his feet, groaning and cursing as tired muscles and cramped joints stretched, he scrubbed a hand over his face and stumbled to the sink. He turned on the faucet and splashed his face with cold water, and it wasn't until he turned off the faucet that it occurred to him...motel bathrooms didn't have sinks  _ in _ the bathroom. This was someone's house. _

_ Moving quietly, wincing as movement made his head spin, he opened the bathroom door-- _

And you were stuck. What happened next was as much a mystery to you as to potential readers.

Tapping the end of your pen on the table, you stared at the page and hoped words would appear on it. You had a deadline to stick to. Several, in fact, and you had vented enough about all of them to enough people that your pride more or less hinged on pulling through. That all of your deadlines were for fan fiction? You may or may not have kept that part to yourself…

You were almost too spaced out to hear the soft footsteps down the hall, pausing on the creaky floorboard, and you jolted out of your reverie in a heartbeat, pulse kicking up several notches. There was no one else in the house...right? Unless it was a burglar?

There was movement in the kitchen doorway, where you sat at the counter, and a man stepped into the room. Pretty tall, pretty bowlegged, and just plain pretty, with a chiseled jawline, a scattering of freckles, and eyes a very particular shade of green… Fanfiction green, one might say…

Dean frigging Winchester was standing in your kitchen.

You sat gaping at him while he didn't look terribly fazed--terribly hungover, but not fazed. He rubbed at his eyes and blinked a few times before speaking. “Morning.”

“Good--good morning,” you replied, gobsmacked.

He looked at you for a moment or two, then said, “Sorry, but I don't think I remember your name…”

“Y/N,” you answered. “I...uh...I...can't believe you're...here?”

“What, you think I'd cut and run at dawn?”

“Well, um…” Discreetly, you gathered up the pages you had been working on and turned them facedown where he couldn't read them, offering, “Do you want some coffee?”

“God, that'd be awesome,” he groaned, sitting down at the kitchen table and massaging his temples.

“Aspirin?”

“Please…”

You poured him a cup of coffee, then hurried down the hallway to the bathroom, mind flung into a tailspin. What the hell was going on? What was Dean Winchester doing in your kitchen? Taking a bottle of pills from the medicine cabinet, you returned to the kitchen, and the fictional monster hunter seated at your table.

Damn, he sure was handsome, you found yourself thinking as you handed him the aspirin. “Here. Help yourself.” He downed a few pills and you sat down again, still as clueless what to do about this. “So, um, what do you remember about last night?”

“The bar,” he replied. “My brother told me about this joint that just opened up in town. The music sucked, but the drinks were on another level. And the food…” His eyes rolled back in his head and he let out a moan of appreciation that made you raise your eyebrows in surprise. “The food was  _ awesome _ .”

“That's...that's cool…”

“Wait a second.” His gaze suddenly focused on your purse sitting at the far end of the table. You always carried a book with you, which rarely fit completely inside, which meant the spine often stuck out in clear view, as it did now. And with the sun beaming in through the windows, the title was plain to see.

_ Supernatural: The Devil You Know _

Your eyes widened and you looked from Dean to the book and back again. He heaved a sigh and said, “You're into  _ Supernatural _ ?”

“Uh, yeah,” you answered. “Ever since the first book was published.”

“You've...you've read all of them?”

“Yeah. A lot.”

He nodded and became doubly interested in the coffee, and you wondered if he was feeling awkward about the details of his life being known, even if he didn't know none of it was real. You knew you'd be embarrassed if you were him, all the horrible things he'd been through set out in black and white for the world's entertainment. Not to mention everything else Carver Edlund wrote… Like Dean told Sam in  _ The Monster At The End Of This Book _ , he was full frontal in there.

“Do you...remember how you got here?” you asked, thinking of all the possible explanations. This was like a weird reverse of  _ Changing Channels _ !

He shrugged. “I remember walking into the bathroom,” he said. “I felt a lot more wasted than I should have, I hadn't had  _ that _ much by my standards, so I asked the bartender and apparently, it was double shot night.”

You groaned at the idea.

“Exactly,” he agreed. “I headed to the can after that, and I remember pushing the door open, and after that?” He spread his hands as if to say  _ what can you do? _ “Best drinks I ever had, though.”

“Oh, well, that's...good, I guess.”

The sound of the front door opening carried through the house and Dean was on alert in a heartbeat, but you explained, “It's cool. It's just my boyfriend.”

He froze, looking more wary than ever. “Boyfriend?”

“Honey, I'm home!” a voice sang out from the hallway.

“He's a bartender,” you added. “How's that for irony? He goes jogging after work, but he's back a little late this morning.”

Cheery whistling sounded out along with the jingling of keys and he appeared, thick dark blond hair windblown from exercise, glasses sliding down the bridge of his long nose, and scruffy beard slightly scruffier than usual. You smiled at him and greeted, “Morning, babe,” then turned back to Dean.

Green eyes were wide with shock and disbelief as he stared at the newcomer, mouth hanging slightly open. He was dumbstruck for a moment, then he burst out, “ _ You? _ ”

“Are you okay?” you asked.

He ignored you, still staring. “I don't believe it,” he said. “I thought you were dead!”

The man looked from Dean to you, confused. “Honey, who is this?” he asked.

“This is Dean,” you answered. “Dean, this is my boyfriend, Rich.”

“Hi, Dean, nice to meet you,” he replied, extending his hand to shake.

Dean's shock slowly turned to a look of indignation and he glanced at the offered hand as if it offended him. “Are you frigging kidding me?” he demanded. “Rich? I'm not buying the crap, pal! You better tell me what's going on!”

Rich drew back, looking askance. “Whoa, calm down, man--”

“Why don't you shove it up your ass? Have you just been hiding out this whole time while we've been dealing with apocalypses and angel wars and whatever other load of bull the universe decides to dump on us?”

“Dean, are you drunk?”

“It was double shot night!” He paused in his outburst, brow furrowed in sudden thought. “Wait a sec...you were the bartender last night. It was dark, but I thought you looked familiar.”

“Yeah,” Rich agreed slowly, “I work as a bartender…”

“But that doesn't make sense!”

You and Dean froze, having said it at once. “He can't have been your bartender,” you reasoned, “he's--”

“An angel,” Dean interrupted.

“Well, I agree, but it's not possible.”

“No, really, he's an angel, but he's supposed to be dead!”

“You don't understand!”

Both of you spoke at once again, and Dean tried again. “Listen, sweetheart, whatever this guy's told you, he's not who you think he is.”

“Who do  _ you _ think he is?” you asked.

“Gabriel, the archangel.”

You looked from Dean to Rich, who merely shrugged and twirled a finger in a circle at his temple.  _ Crazy _ .

“He didn't have a beard or glasses,” Dean went on, “but that's him. Lucifer killed him, or so we thought.”

“In  _ Hammer of the Gods _ ?” you asked.

Dean turned back to you, gears clearly whirling in his head. He reached across the table and took the book out of your purse, reading the summary on the back cover. “Chuck kept publishing?” he muttered to himself.

“Who is Chuck?” Rich asked.

“Carver Edlund's real name,” you answered. “He wrote a self-insert and made himself a prophet, it was kinda wild.”

“Are you talking about  _ Supernatural _ again?”

“Well…” You heaved a sigh. “This is going to sound crazy…”

“Oh, trust me, he  _ knows _ ,” Dean chimed in.

“This is Dean Winchester,” you went on, ignoring him. “As in, actually Dean Winchester.”

Rich paused for a moment, silent, then pointed at the book in Dean's hand. “ _ That _ Dean Winchester?”

“Yep. That one.”

“Uh  _ huh… _ ”

“I'm not crazy,” you insisted.

“Well, we all go a little mad sometimes…”

“You don't believe me?”

“Can it, already!” Dean snapped at him. “I'm sick of your crap, you son of a bitch, now tell me what the hell kind of game you're playing this time!”

“Now, listen,” Rich shot back, starting to sound annoyed, “I'm telling you, _Dean_ , I have no idea what you're talking about, now if we can't remain civil, then you can skedaddle.”

“He can't, honey,” you replied. “He's fictional. He belongs in another reality.”

Dean pointed at you in agreement. “Whatever you've done, put it back right now,” he demanded. “And face up to your crap while you're at it. You think Kali would be cool with you hiding all this time?”

Rich heaved a sigh and took off his glasses, looking exasperated. “Dean, why did you have to bring  _ her _ up?” he asked, snapping his fingers. In an instant, he was clean-shaven, and he seemed to carry himself differently, not quite as laid back but still at ease, with a cool confidence and an easy manner but with an aura of power surrounding him.

Your jaw dropped and you stared at him. “It's...it's  _ true? _ ” you sputtered. “Gabriel? Like,  _ that _ Gabriel?” You pointed at the book in Dean's hand, as Rich himself had done--no, Gabriel, archangel Gabriel, who was also the  _ Mystery Spot _ trickster who dropped the Winchesters into several television universes and died trying to stop Lucifer...and had a fling with Kali the goddess.

What the hell was going on here?

“It's kind of a lot to take in at once,” he conceded.

“ _ Kind of?” _ you burst out, flabbergasted. “You're not real! Neither of you! What are you doing in my kitchen?  _ Am _ I crazy? This is a dream, right? I'm making this whole thing up?”

“Reality is highly subjective,” he replied. “The human world is a mess, you know. You all tend to believe whatever you want, or whatever anyone can convince you of. So, who is to say what's real and what's not?”

You stared at him, and so did Dean. He rolled his eyes and said, “Dude, whatever. Just tell me what you're doing here and why  _ I'm _ here.”

Gabriel heaved a sigh. “It was supposed to be fun, and you ruined it,” he said. “You guys stopped the apocalypse! You didn't need me! I was on sabbatical in a world where all of that was just your imagination. I met Y/N. I had a normal job. It was great!”

“You told me you moved to the city to get away from family problems!” you said. “The problem was the  _ apocalypse?” _

He shrugged. “You met me at a very strange time in my life.”

Understating, much? You sat listening, still trying to process all of it, then asked, “So, how did Dean get here?”

“That's where I think I screwed up. Sam and I thought he needed to cut loose and--”

“Wait,” Dean interrupted, “Sam knew you were alive?”

“I thought you'd get a kick out of meeting your favorite hero,” Gabriel went on, “so I made sure he had fun and brought him here afterwards.”

“What do you mean, fun?” Dean asked.

Gabriel took his phone out of his pocket and opened a video, then handed the phone to you. You hit play and Dean leaned over your shoulder to watch.

Dean was standing behind a mic, a drink in one hand and a monitor reading out lyrics nearby, and by the look of him, it was  _ definitely _ double shot night.

“I did karaoke?” he said, sounding shocked.

“ _ He says son, can you play me a memory?” _ he belted out in the video, slurring his words slightly. “ _ I'm not really sure how it goes… _ ”

You glanced at Dean, not sure what to make of what you were seeing, and he once again looked indignant. “Billy Joel?” he said. “Everything I could have gone with, and I picked Billy Joel?”

“Don't knock him because you butchered his song,” Gabriel chided.

“I thought my performance was quite magnificent,” he replied defensively.

“But if it makes you feel better, I picked the song.”

“After that story I wrote?” you asked, suddenly curious.

“Bingo,” Gabriel confirmed. “That drunken excursion sounded exactly like what our boy needed.”

“How far along in the story did you get him?”

“Oh, he went all the way, baby.”

“Wait, what?” Dean broke in, looking anxious. “What story? What excursion? What happened?”

“Nothing,” you replied quickly.

“What are you talking about?”

“You got trashed and did bad karaoke,” Gabriel answered. “But hey, you won the contest that night!”

Dean narrowed his eyes in suspicion. “What else?”

“You, uh,” you said, trying to phrase it as carefully as possible, “you lost a bet with a bunch of bikers and almost got arrested paying up.”

“Paying up, how?”

“A little public indecency, a little vandalism,” Gabriel replied, “harmless, run-of-the-mill stuff.”

Dean nodded slowly, taking a deep breath. “What else?”

“That's it,” you said. “The end of the story.”

“For real?”

“Every word of it, sir, is the Gospel truth,” you lied.

He'd find the tattoo on his own, eventually.


End file.
